Ghost Road Blues pd-1

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Cool!” Crow grinned in spite of himself.

  “Yeah, well, the kicker is that they’ve been spotted a few times and for some reason I cannot even fathom, they’ve been heading this way. According to what Gus told me, they probably came through here half an hour ago. There were roadblocks set up. Gus had already been working with Crestville and Black Marsh since late this afternoon. Philly is sending a bunch of their ‘advisers’ up here to take over from Gus. He said he tried to beep me to let me know, but he couldn’t reach me and figured I’d wind up here. Anyway, Gus and the other chiefs arranged some sort of road-check system, some kind of observation-post setup, I don’t know. Anyway, there was supposed to be no way the psychos could get through it without at least being stopped.”

  “Stopped?”

  Terry snorted. “Yeah, supposedly Gus Bernhardt and his posse are going to try and apprehend a real criminal.”

  “Be better to have the Marx Brothers try and arrest them. Gus is pretty good at parking tickets, though.”

  “And not much else.” Terry rubbed his eyes.

  Crow could see the pressure mounting in his friend’s face, which had gone from a haggard white to a dangerous red.

  “So, basically all that the local boys were supposed to do was stop and detain and then turn the bad guys over to the Philly cops. Problem is…a good hour ago, the psychos blew past the Black Marsh checkpoint and crossed the bridge. Now here’s the fun part. The suspects never made it to the roadblock in Crestville.”

  Crow said, “Oh,” in a very expressive voice. The town of Pine Deep was a comfortably wide spot in the road, a triangular wedge made up of upscale shops and lush farmland and bisected by Interstate Alternate Extension Route A-32, lying hard against the Delaware River that separated Pennsylvania from New Jersey and framed on all sides by streams and canals. A-32 wavered back and forth between the two states, across old iron bridges and up through farm country, and then plowed right through the town. Black Marsh was an even smaller burg just to the southeast, and miniscule Crestville was the next town heading north. A-32 was the only road that cut all the way through those three towns; the other roads were all small farm roads that led nowhere but to someone’s back forty or to the asymmetrical tangle of cobblestoned streets in Pine Deep’s trendy shopping and dining district. Any car heading to Crestville had to pass through Pine Deep.

  “Are they sure they were on the route?”

  “Yeah, a Black Marsh cycle cop spotted them. Everyone expected them to run into the roadblock in Crestville. There was a reception committee with eight or nine cars, barricades and shotguns…but they never made it.”

  “Shit.”

  “As you say. So, now we apparently have to stage a manhunt.”

  Crow laughed. “You’re kidding, right? An actual manhunt? Like in the movies?”

  “Just like in the movies. Richard Kimble and all that — though Gus Bernhardt is certainly no Lieutenant Gerard. I only hope the cops from Philly are.” Terry cocked his head and peered at Crow. “I wish you’d stop grinning. This is serious.”

  But Crow just shook his head. “I doubt it, I really do. This is just Gus getting hysterical. Everyone’s going to run around like Chicken Little and then we’re going to hear that these three clowns are somewhere northwest of Scranton. Sorry, dude, but I just can’t take this seriously.”

  “Well, I do,” Terry said, and there was enough asperity in his tone to dial down even Crow’s humor. “This isn’t just Gus this time. There really are detectives from Philadelphia here and they, at least, seem to be taking this seriously.”

  “Jeez, Terry,” Crow said, holding his hands up. “Lighten up. Don’t get mad at me. I just know Gus a little better than you do, and until I see actual bad guys rolling down Corn Hill I’m going to find this hard to buy. That’s all.”

  A nervous twitch had started at the corner of Terry’s right eye and he was starting to perspire. He mopped his face on his expensive sleeve, hesitated for a moment, and pasted on a bad attempt at an amiable smile, saying, “Okay, okay. Look, I gotta go but I need you to do a favor for me?”

  “Sure, call it.”

  “Go out to the hayride and let Coop know what’s coming down. Maybe even shut it down for the night. No, don’t give me that look. I think it’s the smart thing to do with all this stuff going on. The hayride’s on Old Mill, just off A-32, and with all the kids out there…well, you know what I mean.” Terry was attempting to sound offhand, but his words were coming out in nervous rapid-fire. “Try to call Coop first, but you know he won’t answer. He never does. He just lets the tape get it. Coop is a pain in my behind.”

  “He’s Sarah’s cousin.”

  “Nepotism is the only thing keeping him on the payroll. The man’s an idiot.”

  Crow found nothing to contest in that statement. “Okay, I’ll button up the shop and head out there. I’m supposed to go over to Val’s anyway, and that’s more or less on the way.”

  Terry looked a little relieved. “Thanks for playing errand boy. Oh, and, Crow?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Be extra careful. Don’t grin at me like that, you idiot, I’m serious.”

  Crow smiled regardless and dropped into a Festus drawl. “Gee, Mayor Wolfe, does that mean I can bring along my trusty six-gun?”

  With no trace of humor in his voice, Terry said, “Yes, it does.”

  Crow blinked at him, waiting for the punch line. He said, “You serious?”

  “As a heart attack.” Terry cleared his throat. “Look, Crow, all of the cops — local and otherwise — are going to be mustering at the station to coordinate this thing. If I could, I’d send one of them, not that any of them are worth the cost of a pack of Juicy-Fruit. Besides, you used to be a cop….”

  “Christ, Terry, in this town nearly everyone except my grandmother has been a cop at one time or other. And she’d have taken the job if she hadn’t had the rhuematiz.”

  “Yeah, well. Consider yourself temporarily reinstated.”

  “As a cop? You can do that?”

  “I’m the mayor, I can do anything.”

  “That’s not what Sarah says.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. My wife thinks I’m Superman.” He mopped more sweat and then looked at his friend for a moment. “Look, Crow, just do this for me quick and safe, okay?”

  Crow smiled but he could see that this matter really was troubling Terry, so he didn’t make another joke. “Sure, Terry. Whatever you want. And about this whole fugitive thing — don’t get too wired about it, ’cause about the last place three wanted criminals are going to want to go is to a haunted hayride packed with every teenager from the tristate area. Y’know, they got this whole thing about witnesses and such.”

  Terry walked behind the counter and retrieved his cell phone, which was only partially recharged. “Yeah, well, just be careful anyway.”

  “I promise that I will be very careful. The best man for this job is a smart coward, and damn it, Terry, I’m your man.” He sketched a salute.

  Terry Wolfe shook his head, but then he stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “Thanks.”

  Crow picked up a rubber severed arm and extended it to shake Terry’s hand. Terry batted it lightly aside and shook his head again, sadly this time. “You are very weird,” he said with a harried grin, and then left.

  For a full minute, Crow just looked out through the broad glass window at the darkness, a lopsided smile on his face. He scratched his cheek with the rubber hand.

  “Well, hell,” he said aloud. Then went into the back room and fetched his gun.

  (3)

  Seconds crawled over the car like army ants. Finally Boyd found his voice and croaked, “Tony? Ruger?”

  Ruger just grunted at him. He quivered as adrenaline coursed through him. He could feel the hair standing up all over his body. His fingertips shook as he probed his cheek and forehead, which were puffing up and beginning to throb. There was no pain yet, but a growing tingle th
at forewarned him of it. It felt wonderful. Running his tongue over his gums, he could taste the hot, salty blood, and he drank it down hungrily.

  “Is Tony okay?”

  Annoyed by the fact that Boyd seemed to be relatively unhurt, Ruger looked at the driver, slumped motionlessly against the steering wheel. “Who cares?” Ruger said.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Tony drove us over a ditch and into this fucking cornfield, whaddya think happened?”

  “Shit!” Boyd said. “That’s just…shit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ruger was trying to recapture the image of the man in his mind, certain that he knew the man, but the harder he tried to grab at the memory, the more elusive it became until finally it was gone for good. He felt a pang at the loss.

  Ruger, you are my left hand.

  He jerked the passenger door handle, shoved the door open, and eased himself out of the car, listening to his body for signs of damage and finding nothing but a few blossoming bruises. He stood by the side of the car for a moment and then grabbed it as the cornfield swirled sickeningly around him. Closing his eyes, he fought for balance. It came reluctantly and slowly. He opened his eyes and looked around. The cornfield was still swaying, but now it was because of the wind. He wondered if he had a concussion. The last time he’d had one, it had felt like being buzzed on really good sour mash; a very nice feeling.

  “Is the car okay?” Boyd asked as he popped open his door and crawled out.

  Ruger studied it, lips pursed. “Nope.”

  Boyd came unsteadily around the car and stood by Ruger. They looked down at the right front wheel, which lay almost flat under the weight of the car. The tire was intact, but the ball joint connecting the wheel to the axle had snapped and the whole wheel had just folded under the car.

  “Well, shit,” Boyd said again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Never gonna fix that.”

  “No kidding.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  Ruger barely glanced at him. “Your legs work, don’t they?”

  Boyd gave him an incredulous stare and then flapped his good arm. “Oh, shit. Man, this is just the fucking top. Walk? Yeah, Ruger, that’s just great. Walk where? Back to Philly? Walk to New Hope? Maybe you want to take a country stroll to Lambertville, I hear they have a good brunch at the inn.” He shook his head. “Where the hell we gonna walk to?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’re in the middle of East Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. There ain’t nowhere around here to walk to!”

  “Sure there is, Boyd,” Ruger said. “There’s always somewhere.”

  “What are you, a freaking tour guide? Do you know where we’re gonna go? There ain’t nothing around here, man!”

  “Hey, shit for brains…you think this corn planted itself? If there’s corn, there’s a farmhouse. Farmers own cars, even in East Bumfuck. Maybe if we ask real nice they’ll let us borrow one.” He grinned.

  “Your mouth is bleeding.”

  Ruger licked his teeth. “I know,” he said softly, smiling.

  Boyd opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut again. He turned, bent, and peered into the car to look at Tony.

  “Is he dead?” he asked.

  “Ought to be, the stupid fuck.”

  “Then why’d you let him drive?”

  Ruger shrugged. “He got behind the wheel.”

  “Yeah, but you said he was fine to drive.”

  Ruger shrugged again.

  “Maybe we should see if he’s, you know, still alive.” Boyd leaned farther into Karl’s side of the car. He reached out and nudged Tony’s sleeve. “Yo! Tony! You in there, man?”

  No response.

  “Let it go,” Ruger suggested.

  Boyd tried again, shaking Tony by the sleeve. Nothing. He tried one last time, and this time Tony lifted his head and shook it slowly, trying to clear his eyes and his muzzy brain. The lower half of his face was smeared with blood and snot, and his nose was disgustingly askew.

  “Yo, Tony! We thought we lost you, man?”

  “B…Boyd?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Boyd?” Tony barely had a voice left, his words croaking out in a whisper not half as loud as Ruger’s slithery rasp, and lacking any trace of vitality. A voice muffled and warped by sinuses flooded with blood. “You gotta help me, man. I’m all fucked up.”

  “Well, yeah, you got shot and then you wrecked the car. You ought to be fucked up,” Boyd said, and then his face softened. “Can you walk?”

  “I don’t…know. I can’t feel my legs, man.”

  Boyd looked over his shoulder at Ruger, who was lighting a Pall Mall. Thunder rumbled overhead, deep and sullen, and in the distance lightning flashed continuously.

  “We might have to carry him, man,” Boyd said.

  Ruger took a long drag on his cigarette and looked thoughtfully at Boyd, his cold eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Boyd,” he asked mildly, “do you really see either one of us carrying his sorry ass anywhere?”

  “Huh?”

  “What I said. Can you see us hauling his sorry ass out of that car and carrying it anywhere? Is that how you see things? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t. I see us taking the money and the coke and making ourselves scarce as shit, is what I see. I see us having enough troubles getting ourselves to some place safe without having to cart around a man that’s mostly dead anyway.”

  Boyd straightened and faced Ruger, half smiling. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Karl. We can’t just leave him here!”

  “Why not?”

  “It ain’t right, man.”

  Ruger took another long and thoughtful drag on his cigarette. Blue smoke leaked from his mouth and nostrils as he said, “‘Ain’t right’? Is that what you said, Boyd? It ‘ain’t right’? That’s precious, man. Now, why don’t you tell me what ‘right’ has to do with anything?”

  “Hey, we’re a team, Ruger. We set this up together and we pulled it off together and we gotta stick together no matter what happens.”

  “Is that right? Then I suppose we should have stayed behind to fetch Nicky and Lester just so we could give them a decent Christian burial. Wouldn’t that have been the ‘right’ thing to do?”

  “Boyd…?” Tony asked weakly, but when Boyd looked inside the car, Tony’s eyes had drifted shut again. Boyd straightened and looked hard at Ruger.

  “Tony’s still alive.”

  “Not much, he ain’t.”

  “He ain’t dead yet, Ruger, and we just can’t leave him.”

  “What do you want to do? Wait here until he kicks? You know as well as I do he ain’t going to make it. He’s gut shot and busted up. It’s not like we can take him to a hospital or anything. There ain’t a hospital from here to Harrisburg that won’t be on the alert for us. Not that anybody’d keep shut about treating a gunshot wound anyway. So what do you suggest we do? Do you know how to treat a bullet wound? Since when are you Marcus-fucking-Welby?”

  “We have to do something!”

  “We have to save our own asses, Boyd, that’s all we have to do. Tony knew the risks, and if he hadn’t had his head stuck up his own ass he wouldn’t have taken one in the belly. But that’s too damned bad. I for one am not going to stand around here just to keep him comfortable till he dies. This is capital crime, my man, not male bonding, and Tony sure as hell ain’t family to either one of us.”

  Boyd shook his head stubbornly. “We’ll find a doctor somewhere, force him to fix Tony. Or bribe him. Hell, we got enough dough.”

  “If you think I’m going to waste any of my money on a dead man, then you are actually dumber than you look. I’m getting my money and my share of the coke and I’m getting the hell out of Dodge right now.”

  Ruger began to turn away but stopped as Boyd opened his coat, revealing the mother-of-pearl grip of his old Colt Commander. Ruger looked at the gun for just a moment, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Boyd’s. There was no trace of fear in Ruger
’s eyes. His flat reptilian stare burned into Boyd’s, and Ruger’s smile slowly blossomed.

  “We have to do something about Tony,” Boyd said in a voice that betrayed far more emotion than he wanted.

  Ruger nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Okay, Boyd, we’ll play it that way.” He took a last slow drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the corn, then brushed past Boyd and bent down into the open passenger side of the car.

  “Yo…Tony?” he asked.

  Tony’s eyelids fluttered for a moment and then opened.

  “Ruger? You gotta help me, Ruger. I’m hurt bad. You gotta help me.”

  “Sure, Tony. Boyd and me, we’ll take good care of you.” Ruger drew his.32 snub-nose and buried the barrel against Tony’s blood-soaked gut, right next to the bullet wound. “Nice knowing you, Tony, but you’re a lousy fucking driver.” He fired a single shot.

  The blast folded Tony in half. He caved over and crunched his face once more smashing against the steering wheel.

  “Jesus!” Boyd howled and grabbed Ruger’s shoulder with his good arm and wrenched him back and spun him, then released his jacket and raised a balled fist; but Ruger went with the turn and stepped into Boyd, jamming the barrel of his gun hard under Boyd’s chin.

  “Throw the punch or put it away,” Ruger said with his wicked grin.

  Boyd froze.

  “If you’re feeling froggy, then jump. Otherwise put that fist away. I’m not in the mood for this shit, Boyd, and we do not have all fucking night.” His voice didn’t rise above a slithery whisper.

  Slowly, gingerly, Boyd lowered his fist, letting it drop limply at his side.

  “Good. Now step off.”

  Boyd moved back a few paces, and then turned and walked ten feet away. He stood facing the swaying corn, chest heaving, fighting for control. Into the waving rows of stalks he yelled, “Fuck!” at the top of his voice.

  “See how considerate I am? Now we don’t have to carry his sorry ass anywhere,” Ruger said. “Well, now the split is two ways. Not five, not four, not three. Just the two of us. That’s half a mil each, Boyd, and enough dope to pretty much double that. That’ll buy a lot of sympathy cards for Tony’s wife and kids. It’ll sure as hell take the sting out of feeling like you’re feeling now. So, let’s just drop this Mother Teresa bullshit and get a move on.”